"I will ride by a single anchor, so as to be ready to slip at a moment's notice," answered Harry. Harry recollected his engagement to take a cruise in Adam Halliburt's boat.

"Come, Algernon," he said to his elder brother, a tall, slight youth, three or four years his senior, with remarkably refined manners, "you would enjoy a trip to sea for a few hours in the Nancy. It would give you something to talk about when you go to college, and you have never been on salt water in your life."

"Thank you," said Algernon, "I do not wish to gain my first experience of sea-life in a fishing-boat." "I want to see how these fishermen live, and I should have been glad of your company," answered Harry; "but perhaps you would find it rather too rough a life for your taste, so I will go alone, and to-morrow when I return I will ride with you wherever you like."

Harry, after luncheon, set off on his pony to Hurlston, while Algernon accompanied his mother and the two Miss Pembertons in the carriage to the same village, where they wished to look at a cottage which Sir Reginald had told them was to be let, and which they had proposed, should it suit them, to take. They were much pleased with its appearance. It stood on the higher ground above the village, surrounded by shrubberies, in an opening through which a view. of the sea was obtained. On one side was a pretty flower garden, and as Miss Pemberton led her sister through the rooms and about the grounds, describing the place, they agreed that had it been built for them they could not have been more thoroughly satisfied. Mr. Groocock therefore received directions to secure Downside Cottage, and they determined to occupy it as soon as it could be got ready for them.

Sir Reginald, on hearing of the decision of the Miss Pembertons, invited them to remain in the meantime at Texford, where he hoped, even after they were settled, they would become constant visitors.

"I am getting an old man now, and as I cannot hunt or attend to my magisterial duties, I am grateful to friends who will come and see me, and you have only to send over a note and my carriage will be at your disposal."

Miss Pemberton assured Sir Reginald that one of their chief inducements in taking the cottage was to be near a kinsman whom they so greatly esteemed.

Mrs. Castleton the next morning had become anxious at the non-appearance of Harry; she had not heard of his intention of remaining out during the night till Algernon told her. He agreed to ride down to Hurlston to ascertain if the boat had returned, and as the Miss Pembertons wished to pay another visit to the cottage, the carriage was ordered and Mrs. Castleton accompanied them.

The weather, as it frequently does in our variable English climate, had suddenly changed by the morning, and although it had been calm during the night, by the time the ladies reached Hurlston a strong east wind sent the surf rolling up on the beach in a way which to the ladies, unaccustomed to the seaside, appeared very terrible. Algernon, who was on horseback, met them.

"The boat Harry went out in has not come back," he observed, "but as the fishing-boats generally return about this hour, she will probably soon be in." Mrs. Castleton, her anxiety increased by the appearance of the weather, begged her companions to wait. "Is that the boat?" she asked, pointing to a sail approaching the shore.

"I think not, that seems a large vessel," answered Algernon, and he rode towards the pier, where a number of people were collected, while others were coming from various directions. There seemed some excitement among them. They were watching the ship observed by Mrs. Castleton, which, in the distance, had to her appeared so small, though in reality a large brig.

"She brought up an hour ago in the roads, but only just now made sail again," was the answer to Algernon's question. "As she is standing for the mouth of the river she is probably leaky, and her crew are afraid of not keeping her afloat in the heavy sea now running."

Algernon watched the brig, which, under a press of canvas, came tearing along towards the mouth of the harbour, and as she drew nearer the jets of water issuing from her scuppers showed that his informant was correct in his opinion. She laboured heavily, and it seemed doubtful whether she could be kept afloat long enough to run up the harbour.

The larger fishing-boats were away, but two or three smaller ones were got ready to go out to her assistance, though with the sea then rolling in there would be considerable danger in doing so.

At length the brig drew near enough to allow the people on board to be easily distinguished. The master stood conning the vessel-the crew were at their stations. So narrow was the entrance that the greatest care and skill were required to hit it. Algernon heard great doubts expressed among the spectators as to the stranger being able to get in.

In a few seconds more, a sea bearing her on, she seemed about to rush into the harbour, when a crash was heard, the water washed over her deck, both the masts fell, and her hull, swinging round, blocked up the entrance. The men on shore rushed to their boats to render assistance to the unfortunate crew, but as the foaming seas washed them off the deck, the current which ran out of the river swept them away, and though so close to land, in sight of their fellow-creatures, not one of the hapless men was rescued.

At length several tiny sails were seen in the distance, and were pronounced by the people on the pier to be the returning fishing-boats. Some were seen standing away to the north to land apparently in that direction, while three steered for Hurlston.

In consequence of the mouth of the river being blocked up, Algernon found that the boats would. have to run on the beach, all of them being built of a form to do this, although those belonging to Hurlston could usually take shelter in their harbour. As the boats drew near, signals were made to warn

The men on shore rushed forward to help their friends.

Mrs. Castleton shrieked out with terror, supposing that Harry was in the boat.

Algernon, who was not destitute of courage, rode his horse into the surf and succeeded in dragging out a man who was on the point of being carried off. Again he went in and saved another in the same way, looking anxiously round for Harry. He was nowhere to be seen, and to his relief he found that the Nancy was one of the sternmost boats. Two poor fellows in the boat were carried away, notwithstanding all the efforts made to secure them. Much of the boat's gear was lost, and she herself was greatly damaged.

"Which is the Nancy?" inquired Algernon, round whom several people were collected, eager to thank him for the courage he had just displayed.

She was pointed out to him. On she came under a close-reefed sail.

Adam, probably suspecting that something was wrong by having seen the boat haul up to get off the shore, was on the look-out for signals.

The second boat came on shore, narrowly escaping the fate of the first. Still the Nancy was to come. She was seen labouring on amid the foaming seas. Now she sank into the trough of a huge wave, which rose up astern and rolled in with foam-covered crest, curling over as if about to overwhelm her. Another blast filled her sails, and just escaping the huge billow which came roaring astern, the next moment, surrounded by a mass of hissing waters, she was carried high up on the beach. Most of her active crew instantly leaped out, and joined by their friends on shore, began hauling her up the beach, when another sea rolling in nearly carried them off their legs. Harry, however, who had remained in the stern of the boat with Halliburt, leaped on shore at the moment the waters receded and escaped with a slight wetting.

As they made their way up the beach, a fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl ran out from among the crowd and threw herself, regardless of Adam's dripping garments, into his arms.

"Maidy May so glad you safe," she exclaimed, as the fisherman bestowed a kiss on her brow. "We afraid the cruel sea take you away."

"There was no great danger of that, my little maiden," answered Adam, putting her down. She then ran towards Jacob and bestowed the same affectionate greeting on him. Holding his hand, Holding his hand, she tried to draw him away from the surf, as if afraid that, disappointed of its prey, it might still carry him off.

Harry remarked the reception the fisherman and his son met with from the interesting-looking child, and he never forgot those bright blue eyes and the animated expression of that lovely countenance. Summoned by his brother, he now hastened to assure his mother of his safety.

"My dear boy, we have been very anxious about

of those horrible little fishing-boats; you run dangers enough when on board ship in your professional duty without exposing yourself to unnecessary risk." "I assure you I have been in no danger whatever, except, perhaps, when the boat was running in for the beach," answered Harry, laughing. "When we went off we did not expect to have to do that, and I am very sorry that you should have been anxious about me. However, I promise to remain quietly on shore till I am summoned to join my ship, and as I am somewhat damp, I will get my pony, which I left at the Castleton Arms in the village, and ride home with Algernon." The ladies accordingly, reentering the carriage, drove towards Texford, and Harry and his brother followed soon afterwards.

CHAPTER X.-MAY'S NEW FRIENDS.

HARRY refrained from making another trip in the Nancy, though he told Adam Halliburt that he had hoped to do so. He seldom, however, caught sight of the blue sea in his rides without wishing to be upon it.

One day he and Algernon, on a ride over the downs, passed near the old mill. Miles Gaffin was standing at the door, while behind him, tugging at a sack, was his man, whose countenance appeared to Harry, as he caught sight of it for a moment, one of the most surly and ill-favoured he had ever set eyes on. "No wonder the farmers prefer sending their corn to a distance to having it ground by such a couple," he thought. The miller took off his hat as he saw the lads. Algernon scarcely noticed the salute.

"I am sorry, young gentlemen, not to have had the pleasure of giving you a trip in my lugger," said the miller, in a frank, off-hand tone. 'If, however, you and your brother are disposed to come, we will run down the coast to Harwich, or to any other place you would like to visit, and I will guarantee not to get you into such a mess as old Halliburt did, I understand, the other day."

"Thank you," said Harry, "my brother has no fancy for the salt water, and as I shall be off again to sea shortly, I cannot avail myself of your offer."

"Did any one advise you not to go on board my craft?" asked Gaffin, suddenly.

Harry hesitated.

"Adam Halliburt offered to take me a trip, and as Mr. Groocock thought I should prefer the Nancy to any other craft, I arranged to go with him," he said at length.

"Ah, I guessed how it was. My neighbours are apt to say unpleasant things about me. Mr. Groocock told you I was not a man to be trusted, didn't he?”

"My brother has said that he preferred the fisherman's boat," said Algernon, coming to Harry's assistance, "and I consider that you have no right to ask further why he declined your offer. Goodday to you, sir; come along, Harry," and Algernon rode on.

"Proud young cock, he crows as loudly as his father was wont to do," muttered the miller, casting an angry glance at the young gentlemen; 66 I shall have my revenge some day."

"I do not like the look of that fellow," observed Algernon, when they had got out of earshot of the

mill.

vessel."

"I am glad you did not go on board his "He seems rather free and easy in his manners, and his tone wasn't quite respectful, but I suppose his pride was hurt because I chose another man's boat instead of his," answered Harry.

"You did not observe the scowl on his countenance when he spoke," said Algernon.

Algernon evidently possessed the valuable gift of discernment of character which some can alone gain by long experience.

The family party were separating one morning after breakfast, when, the front door standing open on that warm summer day, Harry, as he passed through the hall, caught sight of Dame Halliburt approaching with her basket of fish, accompanied by the blue-eyed little girl he had seen when landing from the Nancy.

"Come here, Julia," he exclaimed. "Does not that sturdy fishwife with her little daughter trotting along by her side present a pretty picture? I wish an artist were here to take them as we see them now."

Harry proposed asking Dame Halliburt and the little girl to come up to the porch, but they had by this time passed on towards the back entrance.

The dame is probably in a hurry to sell her fish and to go on her way," observed Miss Pemberton. "We will talk to her another time."

"Come, Harry, madame is ready to give you your French lesson," said Julia, and they went into the house.

Before luncheon Madame De La Motte proposed taking a walk.

"And we will talk French as we proceed. You shall learn as much as you will from your books," she said, inviting Harry to accompany her and her pupil. Harry gallantly expressed his pleasure, and they set out to take a ramble through the fields in the direction of Hurlston.

They had got to some distance, and were about to turn back, when they saw in the field beyond them the same little girl in the red cloak who had come with Dame Halliburt to the house.

They went up to her, for they knew there was a bull in that field that might be excited by her red cloak.

"How came you to be in the field by yourself?" asked Julia, addressing the little girl.

"Mother told me to take the path across the fields while she went round by the road to call at some houses," she answered.

"To whom do you belong, and what is your name?" asked madame, looking admiringly at the child's delicate and pretty features.

"I belong to Adam Halliburt, and he calls me his Maiden May," answered the child.

"Maiden May! that is a very pretty name,' observed madame. "But you are very young to go so far alone."

"We must not let you go alone," said Harry; "I will take care of you till you meet your mother."

"If you will come to the hall we will send one of the servants with you,' " said Julia.

"No, no," said Harry, "you go back, as you must be in at luncheon, and I will take care of the little girl."

"Thank you, thank you," repeated Maiden May, "but I am not afraid."

Harry, however, with true chivalry, though the

object of his attention was but a little fisher-girl, insisted on escorting her, and at length induced his sister and her governess to return, promising to hurry back as soon as he had placed the child under Dame Halliburt's care.

They soon found the stile which led into the path May should have followed. She took Harry's hand without hesitation, and as she ran along by his side, prattled with a freedom which perfect confidence could alone have given her. She talked of the time he had been off in the Nancy, and how anxious she had felt lest any harm should befall the boat.

"And you are very fond of the sea?" she said, looking up in his face.

"Yes; I am a sailor, and it is my duty to go to sea, and I love it for itself," said Harry; "I hope as you live close to it that you love it too.'

"Oh no, no, no," answered May; "I do not love it, for it's so cruel, it drowns so many people. I can't love what is cruel."

"It could not be cruel to you, I am sure," said Harry. "Does your father ever take you in his boat?"

66

'Yes, I have been in the boat, I know, but it was a long, long time ago, and I have been on the sea far, far away."

She stopped as if she had too indistinct a recollection of the events that had occurred to describe them.

Harry was puzzled to understand to what she alluded, and naturally fancied that she spoke of some trip her father had taken her on board his boat, not doubting, of course, that she was the fisherman's daughter.

In a short time they caught sight of Dame Halliburt, when Harry, delivering Maiden May to her care, without waiting to receive her thanks hurried homewards as he had promised.

Sonnets of the Sacred Year.

BY THE REV. S. J. STONE, M.A.

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

"When He was come down from the mountain-there came a leper and worshipped Him, saying, Lord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth His hand and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed."-St. Matt. viii. 1—3.

HE comes to give; He comes to take away:

Restorer and Destroyer. Good and Ill Rise, fall, before Him. So doth He fulfil "The day The mission of His watchman's cry, And the night cometh." To His Yea and Nay Are subject all things. See Him from the hill Descending hear the absolute "I will" That from the Lord of Evil wrests his prey! Redeemer! from Thy heavenly height come down; Thou, Who didst give more gladness to the glad, Now smiling on the sinful and the sad, Let sin and sorrow die before Thy frown. By Thine "I will" this direr plague destroy, And let the sin-sad leper sing for joy.

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.*

"His disciples came to Him, and awoke Him, saying, Lord, save us: we perish. And He saith unto them, Why

are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm." St. Matt. viii. 25, 26.

SINCE round His sleeping brow no aureole

Proclaims Him God, they of His company, Slow to believe but what they hear and see, Winds fiercelier raving, waves that nearer roll, Do image, trembling, the untrustful soul. And He doth image that He was, and is, And is for ever, God. The seas are His: He made them with a word; a word's control Can bow them at His Feet. Lo, with His Form, Uprising at their faith's weak fearful cry, The tumult dwindles to a summer sigh.

"Be still," and all is peace where all was storm. So, Lord, in my wild hours of pain and grief Since I believe, forgive mine unbelief.

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. "Whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the Name of the Lord Jesus."-Coloss. iii. 17.

HOU art the keeper of thy Master's Name, O Christian servant. By thy Master sent, Thy life will be to men a monument To the honour of the Christ or to His shame. Thou art the champion of thy Captain's fame, O Christian soldier. Solemn sacrament Hath bound thee: and thy service will be spent To the issue of His glory or His blame.

Make thy life His: since thou art not thine own: Thou knowest at what price thy soul was priced, Then live as though within thee lived the Christ! Being His, and His for ever and alone.

That thou hast been with Him, in deed and word Let men take knowledge of thee seen and heard.

SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. "We shall see Him as He is. And every man that hath this hope in him purifieth himself, even as He is pure."1 St. John iii. 2, 3.

HAST thou a Hope which is the secret Stream

Warming the ocean of thy life? the Star
Which hardly known to sight and very far
Is central to thy being? the one Gleam
That, amid lights which are not what they seem,
Authentic, eminent, no mists can mar,
Thy soul's sure beacon o'er the harbour bar
Where the last surges line the shore extreme?
A Hope, which in its promise to thy sight
Is as the music of the eternal chime

* In this year there are only three Sundays after Epiphany, and

therefore next week will contain the Sonnet for Septuagesima Sunday,

but, that the series may be complete for other years, Sonnets for the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Sundays after Epiphany are included in this number.

Resolving to thine ear the notes of time
And out of discords making sweet delight?
Hast thou this hope? then, heart and hand and eye,
Make thyself pure, or in that Vision die!

VERONA.

BY MARY HOWITT.

IT was early in October. We had bade adieu to the Tyrol, where our summer had been so deliciously spent; we had passed Botzen, with its picturesque church roofs, tiled like the backs of dragons; and had caught from beyond the mountain range, which surrounds the town, our last view of the stern peaks of the mysterious Dolomites. We had now come to where almond-trees grew in fields of millet and Indian corn, where mulberry-trees were planted in long rows alternated with vines; now amongst chestnut-trees casting deep shadows, now amongst rice-fields and beds of tall reeds, followed by swampy tracts, the overflow of the untameable and desolating Adige,-which, as yet innocent of the ruin which it was so soon to bring, poured its lively waters down the Brenner Pass, ever increasing as they ran from many a foaming cataract and rivulet which had gathered force from the late rains.

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are

We have passed Trent, with its thirty towers and its old historic memories, and so onward through a barren stony flat, the record of the ever-recurring floods of the Adige. The receding Alpine region. filled our background, and the Alpine river, now rapid, now sullen, flowed through our foreground, until, at length, all was lost in the shadows of evening. Ala, the frontier of Italy, was passed with its examination of luggage; then, with nothing to meet the eye beyond the lamp-lit interior of our carriage, we sped on swiftly through the external darkness. In the meantime, the phantasmagoria of the imagination filled with its associated images the picture and portrait gallery of the mind; and amidst these latter shows pre-eminently one grave, majestic figure, with drooped head and meditative, sternly-set countenance, Dante, whose refuge in exile, Verona, we were to reach that night.

Already through the darkness we see a circle of far-off lights twinkling from the many fortresses round Verona-serrated fortress beyond fortress, erected by its many masters, from the time of the old Roman rule to that of Austria, the key to whose Italian possessions Verona was considered, and whose defences of the city are regarded as the triumph of modern military engineering. Of its immediate fortifications we, however, saw little, as, entering Verona in the railway omnibus, we rumbled under a heavy arched gateway and jolted along the narrow silent streets, bordered with lofty houses, yet all of so ancient a character, that had we encountered the two gentlemen of Verona, Valentine and Porteus, attended by Speed and Launce, or a brawling rout of the Montague and Capulet retainers, "biting their thumbs at each other," it might scarcely have seemed strange.

If a prolonged residenee in a foreign land ensures accuracy of information and the ability to speak from knowledge, it is almost always at the expense of the freshness of first impressions and the keen delight of novelty, in which the differences and the dissimilarities between the old and new impress themselves so strongly on the mind. Let us now, therefore, if we

can, combine the two, and take our strolls through this old Verona, which may be selected from all other Italian cities as combining in itself the richest detail of Italian life, poetry, and history of the middle ages, and see it all as with the fresh senses of one whose perceptions are not dulled by familiarity.

Verona was early astir the next morning; so were we, and whilst the bells were sending forth their musical cadence from the campaniles of churches and convents, were out in the streets, mingling with the passing throng, our eyes wandering from object to object with untiring interest. Here are open shops, and dark-eyed faces, old and young, looking out from their chiaro oscuro like old portraits. There is a heavy carved balcony of grey stone, hanging as it were on that picturesque house-front, over which lean a couple of women in dolce far niente attitude, the one in a scarlet bodice, the other with a snowwhite kerchief over her head. How well they look! But everything is full of effect: that second heavy grey stone balcony, brilliant with flowers, the long trails of which hang low and wave in the soft breeze; that little shrine at the street corner, the lamp before which is always kept burning; and this glimpse under the broad old archway into an ancient palace garden, with its fountains, its thick masses of greenery, and its faded frescoes on the walls.

Thus strolling on and admiring right and left, we come into the little piazza, where faces us the beautiful church of St. Anastasia, and now again we pause on one of the bridges over the Adige, which runs through the city, to contemplate the site of the old palace of Theodoric, that "Dietrich of Bern," or Verona, who will always live as a true hero in the legendary poetry of Germany. We had seen his tomb in Ravenna, his memory was green in our minds, and we now looked with pleasure on the old site of his palace with its lordly view. So, standing and gazing with our thoughts in the past, we are at once recalled to the present by a busy sound of light footsteps, and perceive a long line of little schoolgirls advancing, all dressed alike in lilac print frocks and capes, each with her little fan in her hand

and her innocent little head covered with a small black lace veil. These are the little women-the future wives and mothers of Verona. A prettier sight could hardly be. Now we look over the bridge and see the river sweep round in a bold curve, and on either bank a row of irregular, ancient houses, close to the water's edge, red-tiled, and steeped in Italian sunshine, with a cloudless, deep blue sky above, and here and there, on some upland ridge, a distant group of black cypresses. A more characteristic bit of Italy could not be imagined, unless at the end of the bridge, in the shade of the crumbling wall of that little osteria, where stand yoked together a pair of mild-eyed, cream-coloured oxen in a dray, upon which rests a couple of long wine barrels, purple-stained in long streaks as if hooped with the juice of the grape, and garlanded with vagrant vine branches, the bung of each barrel stopped with the pale yellow spathes of the maize, a heap of which lies on the ground before the oxen, from which they ever and anon take a mouthful, gazing the while on the passers-by with their soft, plaintive eyes.

We could have been well satisfied simply to wander about the streets enjoying whatever of picturesque or poetical presented itself, but this dolce far niente mode of seeing Verona would hardly have

been satisfactory in the result. We set ourselves, therefore, to work in a more methodical manner, and betook ourselves to the Piazza delle Erbe, which, connected with some of the most remarkable portions of Verona, remains as picturesque as heart can wish.

This old market-place, the present vegetable and fruit market, was, as the guide-book tells us, in the old Roman days the Forum of Verona, and every step brings before us some object of historic interest. Many of its buildings are of a quaint and rich architectural style, whilst the front of the old palace, which faces you as you enter from the Corso, is covered with frescoes presenting figures of large and noble proportions, strong-limbed and majestic women, and herculean men in boldly foreshortened attitudes. "The small, open tribune, near the market cross," says Murray," occupies the place of an older building, to which the newly-elected Capitano del Popolo of the Free City, after hearing mass at the cathedral, was conducted, and where, after he had addressed the people, he was invested with the insignia of office." The fountain in the centre is said to have been first erected by King Berengarius in 916, and was restored and provided with an additional supply of water by Can-Signorio, or CanGrande, the host of Dante, the ninth of the Scaligers, or Scalas, in 1368. Can-Grande also erected that high tower which rises aloft at the farther end of the piazza, and placed in it the first clock ever seen in Verona. The building on the opposite side, with arches and painted windows-the Casa dei Mercanti or Exchange-was built by an early Scala in 1301, and the pillar at the end of the square by which we entered was raised by the Venetians in 1524, when Verona was subject to their power, to support the proud winged lion of St. Mark, which was, however, deposed in 1799, when that republic submitted to the French.

If the buildings around the piazza afford matter of interest to the mind, no less does its open space, crowded by people, principally women selling fruit and vegetables, which are heaped around in southern affluence. The glowing sunshine is warded off by a grove, as it were, of colossal mushrooms-otherwise white umbrellas. white umbrellas. These umbrellas, expanded above the stalls during the day, are, if you cross the marketplace in the evening or at night, seen furled and rising in long lines of white peaks, like an array of very lean ghosts.

It is almost with reluctance that we leave this

lively scene, where the stout, comely women stand laughing-with their flashing black eyes, their thickly; braided black hair, their great golden earrings and coral necklaces-amongst their luscious purple figs, their sunny grapes, melons, pumpkins, or scarlet tomatoes. Never was there a richer luxury of colour.

It is in this piazza, we would remind our readers of modern English poetry, that Browning has placed the opening scene of "Sordello," Sordello's troubadour life being passed between Verona, Mantua, and Ferrara, amid the surging waves of that Guelph and Ghibelline bloodshed which from generation to generation of the middle ages inundated those old cities of North Italy.

It was a different scene from that which we have witnessed, which Browning describes, when—

"Gathering in the ancient market-place Talked crowd with restless crowd, and not a face